Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

Eleanor Fernsby

 
    "Stop!" Sherlock yelled in horror.

    Eleanor Fernsby simply smiled, her gun still pressed tight to John's temple. "Hello, Sherlock."

    "Put the gun down! Stop this, all of it!" Sherlock knew he was being irrational: orders and commands were useless in front of potential serial killers with loaded firearms. It would have been better if he'd adopted his conventional unfazed and unruffled demeanour to face the hazardous circumstances, but it was impossible for him to stay impassive, not when the gun in question was pointed at John. Nonetheless, he was able to collect himself. Perhaps being a high functioning sociopath did prove to be helpful in some way, excluding all the times he had hurt John with his tactlessnesses.

   "Put the gun down so we can talk."

   She smiled again, and Sherlock wanted to tear her face apart with his hands. "Very fortunately, I use my mouth to do that, not my hands. I can hold a gun and talk at the same time. How convenient, isn't it?"

    Sherlock swallowed his saliva and gritted his teeth.

    "Don't you have anything to say? I was told you never ran out of ripostes, but I have to admit I'm a bit disappointed."

   "No, I do have a lot to say," Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Starting from the fact that you came here as a last resort to get your brother out of jail, and that you might be granted with the pleasure to join him for owning illegal firearms and accomplice to murder, but I had the kindness to shut up hoping it would facilitate our negotiations." Sherlock said, his sentences spilling out so fast from his lips that John missed some of his words.

   "Accomplice to murder?" Eleanor smirked, "We're going a bit far, aren't we?"

   "Oh I wouldn't think so." Sherlock murmured, his expressionless eyes holding her gaze steadily. Other than his lips, not a cell of Sherlock's body moved as he spoke. John had always wondered where it came from, this peculiar way of speaking like a statue.

   "Well." She shrugged, "You do you. But how are you going to send me to jail, if I may ask?"

   "Details." Sherlock said, eyes sliding to the window as if the conversation was starting to exhaust him.

   "Right. Must be." Eleanor said sarcastically, and her eyes sparked with defiance as she went on, "Well what I can see right now is that if you make one move to call the police or anyone, Dr. Watson is dead." She made a show of pulling the trigger to reinforce her statement, causing Sherlock's heart to skip a beat. Thankfully, the trigger safety was still engaged, and it blocked the trigger that came to hit it harmlessly. "John Watson, your damsel in distress. Why don't we help each other, huh, Sherlock? Bring me my damsel, my brother, and I'll leave yours unharmed."

Sherlock considered her. Dark shades under her eyes unveiled her lack of sleep, yet her posture was straight and confident. The agility with which she chose her words and played with Sherlock's emotions was truly remarkable, probably due to numerous past experiences, and if Sherlock wasn't an expert in the matter, he would've fallen into her game.

   "Perhaps you'd prefer conversing in French?" Eleanor asked as Sherlock continued his analysis: wet shoes and tights, so she'd been walking in the streets of London this morning. "It would avoid any problems with Dr. Watson. I'm not quite sure he wants to hear what I have to say. Oh, are you surprised that I know you speak French?"

  Sherlock looked up from her feet. "Not really. I'm guessing you saw the French book I read the night you came to my flat. It was left on the kitchen counter, right next to where you put the syringe. Now put the gun down so we can discuss matters in a civilised manner, whether it is to be in French or in English."